Seven days
by WhatIfImaMermaid
Summary: Just a week in the (academic) life.


1.

On Monday morning the neuroscience seminar begins at eight-thirty, and no way in hell McCoy'd be going if one of his grad students hadn't been roped into giving a presentation. As it is, he briefly considers not showing up at all anyway—especially when Chekov tells him that he decided to name his talk 'DNA topoisomerase, Drugs, and Rock & Roll' and adamantly refuses to change it into something related to the actual content, or at least not insane-sounding—but then he remembers that the neuroscience department actually springs for the Krispy Kreme stuff, and that the past four meals he's had have been—much against his will— appallingly gluten free.

It suddenly seems worth the effort.

When he gets there it's eight twenty-seven, and the only donut left is ghost shaped and pumpkin spice glazed. McCoy briefly contemplates picking that gross thing up, throwing it to the floor in the middle of the room, and then stomping on it with his boot, just to make a statement with whoever makes the Krispy Kreme orders. Jim arrives before he can get to it and snatches the donut away, taking a giant bite and asking with his mouth full, "You don't mind, right?"

"Choke on it," McCoy tells him. He's not a morning person.

There are exactly zero seats left.

Of course.

Which means that McCoy ends up standing half propped against the wall, surrounded by twenty other fools with MDs, and PhDs, and MD-PhDs, who were stupid enough to think that showing up on time for a seminar would be a smart thing to do, and all of this would be terrible enough in and of itself, but Jim falls asleep about seven minutes into the talk—while Chekov is barely through the introduction and still recapping his advisor's groundbreaking findings, which of course are McCoy's groundbreaking findings, so fuck you very much, Doctor Kirk—and McCoy finds himself having to support an additional two hundred pounds leaning haphazardly on his shoulder.

Probably drooling, too.

McCoy already has sweat dripping down his back, and it's not even nine AM. He finished showering not one hour ago.

Anything else would be overkill, except that about halfway through the talk, when he cranes his neck to get a better visual of a terribly contrasted slide—really? Blue background and red text? Does McCoy have to teach these infants _everything_?—his eyes catch sight of _him_ , and an aneurysm pops into his brain.

 _He_ is comfortably sitting in the third raw, straight and composed, looking fresh and well rested like a goddamn spring flower.

 _He_ is quietly sipping from a thermos that probably contains something ridiculous like soy chai latte or basil-mango-cucumber tea or freaking plain hot water.

 _He_ is eating something that McCoy doesn't recognize, but sure as fuck didn't come from Krispy Kreme and has the gall to look both mouthwatering _and_ vegan.

 _He_ is not even technically in the freaking neuroscience department, dammit, and it's aggressively unfair, that these g _oddamn biologists, they come to our seminars, they take our seats, they take our donuts_ —

McCoy must be projecting some serious hate, because Spock chooses that very moment to turn to look at him.

He doesn't even have the grace to look surprised that McCoy is staring. He just does that thing he _always_ does, that thing that is not a smile but totally _is_ a smile, which let's be honest, is nothing but a fucking grimace, and how can a person whose lips can't even manage to curl up symmetrically look so handsome will always be beyond McCoy ability to—

The non-smile deepens into smirk, and Spock raises his thermos to McCoy. Then, he turns his attention back to the PowerPoint.

McCoy starts plotting his murder while Jim continues snoring softly on his shoulder.

2.

On Tuesday night he'd rather be elsewhere.

Like home, possibly getting laid. Or driving home, stuck in traffic listening to a deep voiced dude prattling about the looming threat of nuclear winter on NPR. Hell, even at the gym in his apartment complex, watching reruns of Gray's Anatomy on the treadmill and pretending to be outraged by the medical inaccuracies.

However. If he absolutely has to put a positive spin on the whole being-in-lab-at-nine-thirty-PM thing, it's definitely that the whole floor is deserted, and there are no annoying undergrads swarming around, asking stuff that is on the syllabus and taking selfies with the human skeleton model and wearing leggings as if they were real pants, and at least he won't have to fight anyone to get access to the electron microscope—

"Doctor McCoy."

He should have known.

He should have fucking _known_.

"Spock," he pushes out between gritted teeth, after silently counting to ten.

They just stand there, outside the microscope lab, studying each other warily, a cumulation of some three hundred hours of data collection and tens of thousands of taxpayer dollars in each of their hands.

Anyone else would say _how are you_ , or _fancy seeing you here_ , or _nice Petri dishes_.

McCoy knows Spock better than that, though.

"Were you planning to use the microscope?" Spock asks, and McCoy immediately feels a frisson of unease.

"Nope. Was just taking a stroll with my stained tissue slices. Showing them the sights. It's a beautiful night, and all that."

That stupid, uneven non-smirk. "I am relieved to hear that. As I have reserved the use of the microscope for the next two hours."

McCoy grits his teeth.

"Oh, have you, now?"

"Not now. I have reserved it several days ago, in fact."

He takes a deep breath. Another.

"And why the fuck would you book the microscope from nine-thirty to eleven-thirty on a Tuesday night, Spock?"

"Because I would not want to be in your current position." A heartbeat. "Doctor."

Spock's _clearly_ gonna get a hippocampus thrown at him. And maybe a couple of amygdalas and a locus ceruleus, too.

"There is no way you need to be in there for two whole hours."

"I am very thorough."

McCoy can just bet.

"C'mon. I only need ten minutes."

 _That. Fucking. Smirk._

"Then I suggest you reserve the half-hour slot between eleven thirty and midnight as soon as possible."

McCoy is speechless for a second.

"You _dick_ , I'm gonna—"

He's not gonna anything.

Because Spock's already turned and is swiping his badge to open the lab door. His stupid shirt pulls up when he tries to balance the samples tray on his hip, revealing a strip of pale, smooth skin pulled tight over a hipbone that looks—just looks—

The last thing McCoy sees before the lab door closes is Spock's ass. Which makes him about ten times madder.

He books the eleven-thirty to midnight slot for tonight, and nine to midnight slots for all the Tuesdays left in the semester.

3.

Wednesday, September 27, 2017. 10:22 AM

 **From:** Christopher Pike christopher-pike

 **To:** Biomedical Science Faculty BIOMEDICAL FACULTY LISTSERV

 **Subject:** Congratulations are in order

Dear all,

Please join me in congratulating Doctor Grayson for being this year's winner of the Society for Molecular Biology Early Career Award for his work on the neurobiological bases of language impairment.

Well deserved, Spock.

Chris

 **From:** James Kirk james-t-kirk

 **To:** Spock Grayson spock-grayson , Nyota Uhura nyota-uhura , Leonard McCoy leonard-h-mccoy , Montgomery Scott montgomery-scotty , Hikaru Sulu hikaru-sulu , Christine Chapel christine-chapel

 **Re:** Congratulations are in order

So Friday night we're all getting wasted to celebrate Spock, right? Spock's paying for the first three rounds (shut up Spock it's only logical).

Jim

 _Sent from my Samsung Galaxy S7_

 **From:** Leonard McCoy leonard-h-mccoy

 **To:** Spock Grayson spock-grayson

 **Subject:** this society for molecular biology must be desperate. maybe you should retire now that you've peaked

—

Leonard McCoy, MD, PhD

Zefram Cochrane Professor in Neuroscience and Neurosurgery

 _Sent from my iPhone_

 **From:** Spock Grayson spock-grayson

 **To:** Leonard McCoy leonard-h-mccoy

 **Subject:** Best practices for email subject lines

I see you still have difficulties using the email app. I will be happy to host a workshop on how to write in the email body, if you think it might provide you with useful insight.

Best,

Spock

 **From:** Leonard McCoy leonard-h-mccoy

 **To:** Spock Grayson spock-grayson

 **Subject:** eat shit spock

—

Leonard McCoy, MD, PhD

Zefram Cochrane Professor in Neuroscience and Neurosurgery

 _Sent from my iPhone_

4.

Thursday's brown-bag seminar has been going on for at least ten minutes when McCoy stumbles into the conference room, and any other day he wouldn't even care, because the splatters of blood and cerebrospinal fluid on his scrubs are pretty effective when it comes to dissuading everyone from confronting him about it, _except_ that the only access to the conference room happens to be through a set of doors that is right by the podium, and as soon as he steps in he can't help but notice today's speaker and—

Why—

How is it that—

Who even—

Who even _looks_ like _that_?

The lights are dimmed—probably to make the PowerPoint easier to read, though everyone's going to be yawning in ten minutes and asleep in fifteen and well, that's just a lunch-hour talk's lot—and the glow of the monitors is catching on his cheekbones, and why is the line of his jaw like _that_ , and being that pale should make someone look unhealthy and sickly and washed out and not… _not_. Not to mention—isn't that button-down maybe a size too small, because whenever he lifts his arm to use the laser pointer his bicep fills the sleeve a little too well, and it can't be only McCoy, everyone else in this room must be getting ten IQ points stupider because of the way those pants—and his ass—

"Are you in need of assistance, Doctor McCoy?"

McCoy's not sure why he's still standing there like an idiot, staring at Spock giving a talk on non-communicating hydrocephalus in front of a mostly full room.

Actually, scratch that.

McCoy knows full well, and judging from his smirk Spock knows, too.

He knows every single one of McCoy's inappropriate, unwanted, Title IX complaint-worthy thoughts.

Which is exactly why he interrupted his talk to ask about them in front of about fifty of McCoy's well respected and barely tolerated colleagues.

 _Asshole_.

"There's a mistake on your slide," he pulls out of his ass. Then he remembers to actually look up at the PowerPoint, and at least it's not the title slide.

Spock tilts his head. "Indeed?"

 _Let's see how you get yourself out of this,_ he clearly means.

"The cutoff levels for aqueductal stenosis are at least ten milliliters lower than that."

Spock stiffens. "It is a controversial matter."

"Nah. Not really."

Someone clears his throat in the audience. They both ignore him.

"I could cite several references—"

"All dated. Coleman and Young, 2003. Kimura and colleagues, 2006. And Martini 2007, though the author himself failed to replicate in subsequent work."

"And Schmidt et al, 2013—"

"Oh. That's a crappy paper."

Spock's lips flatten. McCoy smiles.

"Thank you for your ever constructive input, doctor."

"You're welcome. Thank _you_ for providing us all with a valuable learning opportunity. _Doctor_."

McCoy ignores the gaping stares and the averted eyes and the giggles (from Nyota and Hikaru, mainly) and goes to sit next to Doctor Hendorff, who's completely oblivious to the whole exchange since he always plays Farm Heroes on his phone during brown-bag seminars—though he's been known to occasionally branch into Candy Crush. Whenever he's about to finish a level he gets weirdly excited, bumping into McCoy's ribcage with his elbow, and the smell of his pumpkin spice coffee constantly wafts up to McCoy, making him want to rip his nose off his face.

Still, every few minutes Spock throws a sullen, resentful glance in his direction, which makes today the best day of McCoy's week.

By far.

5.

On Friday night the three of them show up to Scotty's office looking annoyingly like it's the weekend, right as McCoy is contemplating leaving academia and fully committing to a touring circus. Or, he could move back to Georgia, maybe set up a quaint family practice with a white picket fence and a nice front yard with a flowerbed and an irrigation system. And also buy a farm, with sheep and cows and chickens, and he's always been a dog person—

"Let's get out of here, guys. Drinks. Now." Jim is as loud and obnoxious as usual. McCoy debates throwing a stapler at him.

"Cool. I mean, there's a half million dollar grant due tonight that Scotty and I haven't finished writing, let alone formatting or turning in, but aside from that's a great idea."

Jim pastes a consternated expression on his face. "Oh. Damn. You guys still working on _that_?"

McCoy narrows his eyes. "You're applying, too. How are _you_ not still working on it?"

"C'mon. Look at my collaborators." He claps his hands on Spock and Nyota's shoulders. "That grant was ready like three weeks ago. Amirite?"

Nyota rolls her eyes and steps a few inches away from Jim. Spock ignores everyone and keeps typing on his phone.

"You _are_ aware that it's due in one hour and forty-five minutes, right?" Nyota asks McCoy with a tinge of concern, and damn them, _all of them_ , these people who have their shit together and always remember to pick up their clothes from the dry cleaner and probably file their tax returns on January twenty-third.

Damn them and their healthy, plush, glowing time management skills.

"Forty-three," Spock corrects her without lifting his eyes from his stupid phone, and something—a blood vessel, or maybe his entire parietal lobe, who the hell knows—explodes in McCoy's brain.

 _Georgia._

 _Sheep. Farm. Dogs._

"That's plenty of time!" Scotty says cheerfully. McCoy tries not to think about the references that are not uniformly in APA style and the three hundred or so words than need to be cut and the fact that their Potentials Pitfalls and Alternative Strategies section is currently composed of exactly one line that says 'might fuck up somewhere along the way, but we'll figure it out'.

"Well. Join us if you get it done early."

They won't. They'll submit with one minute and thirteen seconds to spare and for every time the application system crashes on them—many, it will be many—McCoy will lose about three million neurons and ten years of his life.

 _Family practice._

 _Cows._

 _Chickens._

They can still hear Jim in the hallway, blathering on and on about this _phenomenal_ mac-and-cheese pizza he tried last week, when Scotty leans in and whispers, "We really should get Doctor Grayson to collaborate with us for the next grant."

 _Flowerbeds._

 _Irrigation system._

He picks up the phone to google 'flowers + Georgia + fall', because this daydream needs a little more texture to be convincing, and that's when he notices the text.

 ** _I left some dinner in your office._**

6.

On Saturday, sometime past midnight, McCoy hears keys turning in the lock and his heart rate speeds up a little.

He orders it not to, and continues washing his face in the bathroom closest to the entrance.

Spock takes his time to come find him.

Naturally.

"Good mor—"

McCoy loathes decaf, and non-universal healthcare coverage, and people who say good morning just past midnight because technically it's already the following day, so he presses Spock into the wall and kisses him before he can finish the sentence.

"All week," he says against his mouth. "You've been an asshole all week."

"We have barely seen each other this wee—"

"Oh, I've seen you, all right."

He unbuttons Spock's jeans, and then his shirt, and when he's naked and pliant and panting he turns him around so that he's facing the wall, and then, after half a second and a million years, after some adjusting and too many open-mouthed kisses, then he's inside.

Finally.

It's been a long fucking week.

Like it sometimes happens when they are like this, for a short moment they stutter, break, slow down, and who the hell knows what Spock has in his head at any time, but McCoy thinks that for once they might be of one mind, hovering between scared and marveled and overwhelmed by this unreasonable thing they have.

This thing they do.

McCoy leans against the wall with one hand, presses his nose in the hollow of Spock's throat, and under the alcohol and the sweat and the soap, _Jesus Christ_ , the _smell_ —the smell of him is—

"Thanks for dinner," he husks.

Spock's breath catches as he turns his head into McCoy's bicep.

Kisses it lightly.

"You are welcome."

This is… nice.

One of those patches of time that make McCoy's cock hard and his stomach tight and full, that he stores and treasures but doesn't let himself think of too much, because they frighten him a little.

A lot.

He shifts. "Of course, it could have been _not_ vegetarian."

"Not—" Spock breaks off to exhale "—not with your cholesterol levels."

"My cholesterol levels are _fine_."

"I fail to comprehend how your medical license has yet to be rescinded given your cavalier atti— _ah_."

McCoy moves then, short, rolling thrusts that belie the way he really wants to do Spock—and Spock, Spock's fingers curl in a fist, and he's stroking himself already, looking for more contact, more friction, and that's _not_ how they do things in this house.

McCoy's hand slides from a jutting hipbone to grip Spock's wrist and drag it away.

"Oh, no. I don't think so."

Spock whimpers.

They continue like this, both of Spock's hands trapped between McCoy's and the wall, and there's lots of sweat and squirming and clenching, and lots of _good_ and _too much_ and _shhhh_ , and it would be nice to make this last a decent —but _no_. It's one of those nights. Spock comes with that soft grunt he only makes when he's completely lost it and the pleasure is _ridiculous_ and McCoy—he really tries—but it's—and he can't—he just follows, his mind and his body emptying at once.

Thank fuck for the weekend.

"Welcome home," he pants, biting softly into the fleshy part of Spock's shoulder. When he smiles, the muscles his cheeks feel long unused. "You made a mess."

7.

On Sunday afternoon, McCoy really should be writing.

He isn't.

Spock's head's on his lap, and who the hell knows how it got there, anyway, and McCoy's gonna run his hand through Spock's hair twice, maybe three times more, _tops_ , and then make him move and stand and go clean the bathroom, since when they got married McCoy's _one_ condition—to Spock's ten thousand—was some freaking help with the chores, and how's that working out, anyway?

And how's he supposed to concentrate on his book, if Spock keeps turning his head to nuzzle his face into McCoy's sweater—not to mention playing with the hair on McCoy's forearm like _that,_ like it's interesting and engrossing and _fascinating_.

He's been on page ninety-seven for forty damn minutes.

"Don't fall asleep," he tells Spock, and will you look at that, a freaking real smile for once, a _cute_ one—though it barely lasts a second before Spock dozes off, his eyelashes black half moons against pale skin as his breathing evens.

 _Oh, for fuck's_ —every given Sunday, he does this.

McCoy sets his book on the arm of the couch and stops pretending he's looking anywhere but at Spock.

Bah.


End file.
